Be a Nightmare
by shigureisasexybeast
Summary: Post S1EP1. George struggles with the aftermath and just can't seem to get the blood off his hands.


George often wondered what it was like to be dead. It wasn't hard to imagine, he decided, given the fact that a good two-thirds of his current household was decidedly deceased. And he realized that despite the whole 'being dead' part, it wasn't hard for him to envy Annie sometimes. She never had to worry about getting sick or eating or whether women were into her as she was just thrilled that people could _see_ her in the first place. But most of all, she didn't need to sleep.

Of course George, of all people, knew that sleeplessness could be both a blessing and a curse. But no sleep meant no dreams and no dreams undoubtedly meant no more of _this_. No more huddling out on the front steps in the early hours of the morning, scratching absently at the all but invisible blood on his hands that his nightmares just couldn't seen to clean off. Even after he'd woken, shaking and covered in a faint sheen of sweat (not unlike those few hours before a transformation) he couldn't shake the image from his head. Her throat was all but torn open, the blood soaking through her shirt. It stained her face, the ends of her hair. And his hands, coated and sticky in the substance as he pushed against her, at first trying to apply pressure, stop the bleeding and then merely clutching her body to him, still bleeding out those two last pints of life that Lauren had oh-so-mercifully left-

"George."

He jumped slightly, one hand wrapping almost protectively around the other as he glanced up into Mitchell's strained face and worried eyes, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that what he was dealing with had to be absolutely nothing compared to what his friend was.

"Hey, Mitchell." Wincing slightly at the small waver in his voice, George scooted over on the step, frowning slightly at the ground in front of him. Mitchell dropped down beside him, crossing one long leg over the other and tapping his fingertips against the step beneath him for a moment before glancing sideways to survey his friend.

"So what's up?"

George gave a quiet sigh, his eyes still fixed on the ground in front of him. "Nothing, really," He muttered finally, pointedly ignoring Mitchell's raised eyebrow, "just this dream i've been having. It, uh, kinda sucks."

Mitchell favored him with a small snort, "I'd guessed as much. You gonna tell me what it was _about_? Or do I have to-"

"The blood." George cut him off, his voice strained but thankfully no longer embarrassingly weak. "there's just so much of it. When she dies-_died_-it's everywhere and I can't get it off..." He hadn't realized he'd started scratching at his hand again until Mitchell grabbed his arm, pulling it gently away from the other.

"Stop it. You know for a fact that wasn't your fault." The rest of the sentence hung, heavy and unsaid in the air between them. _It was mine_.

"But I didn't get there in time. I could have stopped it, could have done _something_ other than sit there and watch her _die_."

Mitchell opened his mouth to say something, probably in accordance with his newly well-used worry lines and denying the rational part of him that said it was Lauren's fault, really, she'd just dragged him into it and gotten them both too involved for their own good. But then George finally looked over at him, taking off his glasses to rub a hand over his face and wordlessly pleading for him not to say it, and Mitchell really couldn't do anything but comply because George's eyes were filled with such anguish and guilt that he knew there was nothing to do but wait it out. After all, after an eternity one can learn to be rather patient.

So he merely leaned into his friend as George replaced his glasses and propped his chin in one hand. They sat in silence for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, until George spoke up again.

"I thought we were supposed to be the nightmares, you know? Not the other way around."

Mitchell shrugged against him, bumping George's shoulder softly with his own. "Sure, but i guess it shows that you're still human too. At least part of you." He offered George a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, moving a hand to tap him lightly on the back of the head, "You know, feelings, those things that get at least part way through to that idiot head of yours."

George rolled his eyes at that, muttering a quiet but amused, "Shut up." He relaxed slightly, tense muscles loosening as he leaned into his friend.

They sat there until the sun appeared beyond the horizon, or rather, the dumpster blocking their beautiful view of the opposite wall, and George couldn't help but note that these types of nightmares aren't quite so bad after all.


End file.
